Even with the shift in national attention towards elder care, problems still exist. There is a gap between what facilities advertise in glossy brochures and what they actually practice. Many of these places are built and purchased as investments; as with all investments, the bottom line is profit.
The success of long term care of any kind, whether at home or in a facility, depends on the staff providing the care. They too, are part of an investment -- not only of money, but of the soul kind.
Most people go into the elder care business because they are dedicated to the well-being of elders. The problem is that many of these individuals are in danger of burn-out, which leads to exhaustion and turn-over, which lead to low morale all around, which can lead to verbal or physical abuse if not recognized and managed quickly. It may seem like an obvious conclusion, but challenges faced by staff in elder care facilities are directly related to the level of care and attention given to residents. We must address these challenges.
Only after months in and out of the nursing home which housed my mother, endless hours observing dynamics between residents and staff, and then finally having the chance to talk with staff members -- only then, did I come face to face with what I perceive to be the main threat to the delivery of good care. In spite of what some administrators and nursing home owners may think, it isn't just about needing more operating capital. It is as much, if not more, about the need for soul-level connections between people who reside, visit, and work in elder care facilities. When that is accomplished, less time will be spent on problems that arise out of fear, hopelessness, anger, and exhaustion.
Soul connections, those life-changing 'I honor you' moments that are exchanged between two people, are at the heart of Soul Portrait. When we start to look at institutional care more closely, one role at a time and one person at a time, attitudes and practices will change. Each of us needs the soul- connections that validate us as unique individuals -- whether resident, professional, or loved one. It takes very little time to make such a connection, yet it's not a priority in the delivery of care. We are too busy tending to physical needs and dealing with everyday problems; we can't be bothered with learning more about each other or getting to know one another on a deeper level.
My perspective on nursing home care and my opinions about improving that care developed not only out of my career, but also out of my role as a daughter-caregiver. Both roles frustrated and angered me at times; I felt helpless to change the system. Being a resident's daughter, however, helped me break through my paralysis; I mustered up the courage to write a letter to the 25-member volunteer board of directors of the aging community in which my parents resided and my mother died. I wrote about my experiences and specific concerns regarding Mother's care. Neither administration, management, nor board members responded.
As the weeks passed with no response, I began to feel invisible, just as I did when I walked down the corridors of the nursing home trying to make eye contact with busy personnel who wanted to avoid a connection.
No one was willing to take a step out of his or her comfort zone to ask pertinent questions about what I had experienced. Later on, I figured the total lack of response from anyone (including the chaplain to whom I sent a copy) had come out of advice from their attorney. Was I just another trouble-making family member, or worse yet, a lawsuit waiting to happen? They were afraid, and one way to deal with fear is to deny the existence of a problem. Because my family had long been connected to this church-owned community, I let it go; I was tired and grieving for both my parents.
Over time, and when my anger and disappointment passed, I got more determined to search for answers to the elder care dilemma.
(c) Sally Z McBain
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Monday, August 27, 2012
Nursing Homes
There are times when even to live is an act of bravery. Lucius Annaeus Seneca
Even though I'm the one writing this, it is my mother's story as much as it is mine. Any anxiety I may have about aging is directly linked to her experience; and I am not alone. A friend shudders each time she comes away from a visit with her mother, a nursing home resident. "I hope I can figure out a way to commit suicide before I ever get to that point", she proclaims. I know how she feels. We don't want to think about getting old, let alone lying in a nursing home bed. We don't want to talk about it, and most of us don't even want to hear or read about it.
It doesn't matter that statistics are in our favor. Chances are good if we do go to a long term care facility, we will receive therapy, recuperate, and get back home. But as we watch a parent or elderly friend enter a facility, it's difficult to separate ourselves from the event. We look on as they trade individuality, privacy, and control over their lives for help they cannot get in another setting. We've seen the insecurity, loneliness, isolation, and fear that are an integral part of institutional culture. We've heard residents cry out, "I want to go home. Will you take me home?" Resignation and hopelessness are reflected in eyes that once lit up at the thought of a familiar kitchen, bedroom, or workbench. We wonder if someone with dementia is better off, not knowing where they are.
It has been almost six years since my mother died in the nursing home of a well-respected church-affiliated retirement community. I owe it to her memory, and to families of other residents, to write about her journey. As often as our family visited her, she had to take the journey alone. She was the one eating the baloney sandwich or small piece of fish inside a huge bun. She was the one trying to maintain her dignity while getting the cool shower, and as she said, 'feeling like a horse being washed down in a stall.' She was the one who couldn't get to the bathroom by herself and had to depend on a call bell (that didn't always work) to get assistance. She was the one lying awake in a strange bed in the deepest darkest part of night, suffering from a urinary tract infection and hearing a frustrated aide say, "You have to go again? You aren't the only patient we have, you know."
Such is the cold, hard truth of nursing home life, in spite of the fact that nursing facilites are filled with compassionate professionals who are doing their best to give good care. I didn't appreciate this until I walked into one as an employee. I had been hired as the admissions co-ordinator for a 120-bed facility in Nevada. Up to that point, and because my career had focused on shoring up the local community-based care system for at-home elders, I viewed nursing homes as dumping grounds for sick, older, and disable adults whose families didn't care or didn't have the time for them.
As the director of a five-county federal and state-funded area agency on aging in Oregon, I worked with a team of staff members who were trained in Medicaid nursing home rules and regulations. They were charged with surveying nursing facilities and reporting non-compliance back to the state office on aging. Our staff meetings didn't focus on the good in those facilities; we talked about bed sores, odors, soiled sheets still on beds, illegal patient restraints, and elder abuse. I didn't trust nursing homes, and I didn't try to understand life in them, least of all from the employee's or family's vantage point. I could not see beyond the misery of residents and depressing surroundings, which I blamed on bad administrative practices and poor staffing.
My thinking changed as soon as I admitted my first resident into the health care center in Nevada in the late 90's. It didn't take long for me to realize that not only had I judged all nursing homes unfairly, but I had dismissed the roles played by loving family members, volunteers, hard-working nurses, dedicated certified nurses aides, and support staff at all levels.
It became clear to me that a pardigm shift had been occurring right before my eyes. Society began to hold older adults in higher esteem, to consider them a natural resource deserving respect and protection. More laws were put into place and nursing homes were held even more accountable. Eldercare became a national priority.
next: Personalizing Health Care
(c) Sally Z McBain
Even though I'm the one writing this, it is my mother's story as much as it is mine. Any anxiety I may have about aging is directly linked to her experience; and I am not alone. A friend shudders each time she comes away from a visit with her mother, a nursing home resident. "I hope I can figure out a way to commit suicide before I ever get to that point", she proclaims. I know how she feels. We don't want to think about getting old, let alone lying in a nursing home bed. We don't want to talk about it, and most of us don't even want to hear or read about it.
It doesn't matter that statistics are in our favor. Chances are good if we do go to a long term care facility, we will receive therapy, recuperate, and get back home. But as we watch a parent or elderly friend enter a facility, it's difficult to separate ourselves from the event. We look on as they trade individuality, privacy, and control over their lives for help they cannot get in another setting. We've seen the insecurity, loneliness, isolation, and fear that are an integral part of institutional culture. We've heard residents cry out, "I want to go home. Will you take me home?" Resignation and hopelessness are reflected in eyes that once lit up at the thought of a familiar kitchen, bedroom, or workbench. We wonder if someone with dementia is better off, not knowing where they are.
It has been almost six years since my mother died in the nursing home of a well-respected church-affiliated retirement community. I owe it to her memory, and to families of other residents, to write about her journey. As often as our family visited her, she had to take the journey alone. She was the one eating the baloney sandwich or small piece of fish inside a huge bun. She was the one trying to maintain her dignity while getting the cool shower, and as she said, 'feeling like a horse being washed down in a stall.' She was the one who couldn't get to the bathroom by herself and had to depend on a call bell (that didn't always work) to get assistance. She was the one lying awake in a strange bed in the deepest darkest part of night, suffering from a urinary tract infection and hearing a frustrated aide say, "You have to go again? You aren't the only patient we have, you know."
Such is the cold, hard truth of nursing home life, in spite of the fact that nursing facilites are filled with compassionate professionals who are doing their best to give good care. I didn't appreciate this until I walked into one as an employee. I had been hired as the admissions co-ordinator for a 120-bed facility in Nevada. Up to that point, and because my career had focused on shoring up the local community-based care system for at-home elders, I viewed nursing homes as dumping grounds for sick, older, and disable adults whose families didn't care or didn't have the time for them.
As the director of a five-county federal and state-funded area agency on aging in Oregon, I worked with a team of staff members who were trained in Medicaid nursing home rules and regulations. They were charged with surveying nursing facilities and reporting non-compliance back to the state office on aging. Our staff meetings didn't focus on the good in those facilities; we talked about bed sores, odors, soiled sheets still on beds, illegal patient restraints, and elder abuse. I didn't trust nursing homes, and I didn't try to understand life in them, least of all from the employee's or family's vantage point. I could not see beyond the misery of residents and depressing surroundings, which I blamed on bad administrative practices and poor staffing.
My thinking changed as soon as I admitted my first resident into the health care center in Nevada in the late 90's. It didn't take long for me to realize that not only had I judged all nursing homes unfairly, but I had dismissed the roles played by loving family members, volunteers, hard-working nurses, dedicated certified nurses aides, and support staff at all levels.
It became clear to me that a pardigm shift had been occurring right before my eyes. Society began to hold older adults in higher esteem, to consider them a natural resource deserving respect and protection. More laws were put into place and nursing homes were held even more accountable. Eldercare became a national priority.
next: Personalizing Health Care
(c) Sally Z McBain
Friday, August 10, 2012
My Ideal Vacation
Towering trees, mountains, and a lake recently provided my ideal vacation. Nevermind this particular vacation lasted only 2-1/2 days; it was all I needed to forget the phone, internet, violent news, daily responsibilities, and myself. I came home feeling light as a feather and wanting more.
After several days of preparation and anticipation, we left town on a hot summer Sunday morning, canoe tied securely to the top of the car and a tote full of art supplies squeezed between two suitcases full of clothes for all kinds of weather and coolers with enough food for several days. We came home with a canoe that never got wet, water color brushes that remained in their case, clothes that never saw the light of day, and food that went right back into the coolers.
Since I have a tendency to analyze everything under the sun, I've been wondering why and how this break in our normal routines affected me the way it did. I think it was because nothing else interrupted the flow. My husband and I have always had a reason for traveling to incredible places: home re-locations, business meetings, or visits with family and friends. When one travels that way, there are timelines and few opportunities to wander around and really get to know an area. When we moved back to the Gorge, for instance, we passed the Great Salt Lake, an area I'd like to explore -- but not at 65 miles per hour. You don't lollygag when you know the moving van is ahead of you. And when my younger son was in school there, my husband and I couldn't stay long because of our jobs.
We've been all over the country, but rarely - rarely - have we ever just gone somewhere beautiful and restful for the sake of going somewhere beautiful and restful. This time, thanks to retirement and time on our hands, we did; and it didn't take long to get used to the luxury of sitting on the deck of a lakeside cabin and soaking it all up. I said to my sweetheart, "This is great. We are getting away from the world and each other - together!" Our husband-wife personas were left at home and we were content to sit with each other as old buddies inside Nature's best.
Not only are vacations good for a marriage that can get ho-hum or too often emphasize a couple's differences, they're good for the soul -- like a battery, they recharge all the senses. My husband is happy when he's fishing, which he did in earnest as soon as he unloaded the car. He looked at the 48 steps from cabin to water and decided casting from the dock into the deep lake would be perfect. As for feeding my soul, photography took center stage. We couldn't take a walk without my pausing every few minutes to catch the sunlight through heaven-skimming ponderosa pines, acres and acres occupied by grazing cattle and horses, an osprey's nest and its juvenile occupants learning to fly, or the green-blue lake and summer mountains streaked by thin ribbons of snow. I was totally relaxed, which is not my normal state; I'm usually up and doing something productive...something that has a tangible outcome (like a hairless carpet).
My mind is just as busy as my body. Yoga and meditation provide brief, quiet breaks from my daily brain bursts; but this vacation gave me the chance to get away from worrying about our aging dog, coming up with an answer to "What's for dinner tonight?", or thinking about my next Soul Portrait workshop and blog topic. This vacation reminded me of the value of relaxation and the fun of doing only what I want to do; but it also made me very grateful to have the extra funds to take this trip. All around us, we see people living hand-to-mouth; in fact, we met a woman who is trying to keep her business afloat. Single and 65, she is supporting a disabled daughter and working every day; retirement, let alone a vacation, is out of the question.
The morning we got ready to leave the cabin, I slowly scanned my surroundings, knowing I'd have pictures to remind me of the bliss, but feeling sad. With fingers wrapped around a last cup of coffee and tears welling up, I said to my husband, "I don't want to leave." I've never said that before; I've always been anxious to get home. Yet, even as the words were coming out of my mouth, I started to think about Molly and if she was doing okay at the kennel. That was another blessing about time away; she doesn't have many more years with us and I swore I'd never complain about her hair again.
"I don't want to leave." What is inherent in that statement? Was I content enough to stop the clock for a few more days? Am I pushing myself too hard at home? We are retired, for Pete's sake; I can stop trying to prove something to myself any time I want. Do I feel guilty when I'm not painting, writing, cooking, or knitting? Is aging gracefully about knowing when priorities need to change, when vacuuming or fixing the perfect meal or having shiny stainless steel appliances is secondary to sitting under a tree with a clear head and a full heart?
Most Oregonians know about Wallowa Lake, just outside the town of Joseph, and positioned at the foot of the Wallowa Mountains. Joseph (named after Chief Joseph) is founded on the history of the Nez Perce; it is also a Nature-lover's dream. In spite of all the summer visitors, it was quiet and serene. Residents of neighboring cabins and year-round homes were my kind of people -- quiet and thoughtful of others and the environment. It was heaven on earth and I can't wait to get back.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Why Write?
I'm just going to write because I cannot help it. Charlotte Bronte
The more entries I place in this journal, the more I ask myself why I'm doing this...and making it public. There are several reasons, and perhaps the first is the most critical for my sense of joy and well-being: Writing offers a protected world where I can express my dreams, emotions, and thoughts. It's a safe haven for discovery; and with that as my foundation, I integrate layer upon layer of Self.
Writing is one of my centering practices; it calms me and keeps me on my spiritual path. If I don't write, I tend to get restless. There are things I need to figure out, relationships I need to sort through, and problems I need to solve. In her book, Storycatcher, Christina Baldwin says, "I believe the kinds of writing millions of us are doing in our diaries and journals are attempts to heal the split in the human mind and in the human experience." Writing helps me get to my truth.
My writing is, on first glance, centered on myself; but I've always believed that to know Self is to know the meaning of life...at least a big part of it. It's all in my writing --the ever-sustaining universal breath, basic needs that connect me with everyone else, and a full range of human emotion. While it might seem that an over-indulgent ego is what propels me or anyone else to write, quite the opposite is true. Writing is my way of never forgetting that life isn't just about me; I know I'm a tiny fleck in the scheme of things. Like Virginia Woolf said, "When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?" I do a lot of thinking about those stars and everything around and beyond them, especially when I'm deep in an ego-propelled frame of mind. Writing helps me heal the split, as Baldwin puts it. It also helps me see life from someone else's perspective.
For most of my adult life, I have struggled with guilt and pain related to my two divorces. I wanted to know why, to understand my role in those failures. Today, I have my answers; threads of understanding and acceptance connect much of what I write. It took many years, but I reached this place by putting my thoughts onto paper with poetry and prose. Writing inspires me to take a closer look at forgiveness, love, and gratitude. Granted, it's a lot easier to write about these things than it is to practice them every day, but the act of writing is the inspirational nudge I need to move forward.
The best I have to share with my children is the essence of who I am. To hide my lessons or dismiss my progress is to deprive them of a basic part of who they are and will become. Someday, from their unique experiences of me, they will garner insights into one life that contributed to theirs. Perhaps they will be 60 years old when they feel like reading, just as I was when I reached for my grandfather's diaries. On those pages, where he wondered if anyone would ever read what he had to say, his adult graddaughter got to cuddle up in his arms again. I could see the metal head band of his hearing aid reach around and into each ear. I could taste the candy corn he always put within reach before he read Uncle Wiggly to me. Most of all, I felt an overwhelming compassion for the physical suffering he endured day after day. His diaries add to my sense of love, belonging, and personal history.
Finally, having my own blog is one way to reach out to others who experience life similarly. It also offers assurance that these writings will always be accessible to my family. Just a few weeks ago, a brush fire came dangerously close to the house. We were ready to evacuate in case the fire spread (which it did not), and had everything together. I was exhausted and had no energy to grab all my journals; but it was comforting to know that someday, a son or grandchild might just stumble onto my blogs.
(c) Sally Z McBain
The more entries I place in this journal, the more I ask myself why I'm doing this...and making it public. There are several reasons, and perhaps the first is the most critical for my sense of joy and well-being: Writing offers a protected world where I can express my dreams, emotions, and thoughts. It's a safe haven for discovery; and with that as my foundation, I integrate layer upon layer of Self.
Writing is one of my centering practices; it calms me and keeps me on my spiritual path. If I don't write, I tend to get restless. There are things I need to figure out, relationships I need to sort through, and problems I need to solve. In her book, Storycatcher, Christina Baldwin says, "I believe the kinds of writing millions of us are doing in our diaries and journals are attempts to heal the split in the human mind and in the human experience." Writing helps me get to my truth.
My writing is, on first glance, centered on myself; but I've always believed that to know Self is to know the meaning of life...at least a big part of it. It's all in my writing --the ever-sustaining universal breath, basic needs that connect me with everyone else, and a full range of human emotion. While it might seem that an over-indulgent ego is what propels me or anyone else to write, quite the opposite is true. Writing is my way of never forgetting that life isn't just about me; I know I'm a tiny fleck in the scheme of things. Like Virginia Woolf said, "When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?" I do a lot of thinking about those stars and everything around and beyond them, especially when I'm deep in an ego-propelled frame of mind. Writing helps me heal the split, as Baldwin puts it. It also helps me see life from someone else's perspective.
For most of my adult life, I have struggled with guilt and pain related to my two divorces. I wanted to know why, to understand my role in those failures. Today, I have my answers; threads of understanding and acceptance connect much of what I write. It took many years, but I reached this place by putting my thoughts onto paper with poetry and prose. Writing inspires me to take a closer look at forgiveness, love, and gratitude. Granted, it's a lot easier to write about these things than it is to practice them every day, but the act of writing is the inspirational nudge I need to move forward.
The best I have to share with my children is the essence of who I am. To hide my lessons or dismiss my progress is to deprive them of a basic part of who they are and will become. Someday, from their unique experiences of me, they will garner insights into one life that contributed to theirs. Perhaps they will be 60 years old when they feel like reading, just as I was when I reached for my grandfather's diaries. On those pages, where he wondered if anyone would ever read what he had to say, his adult graddaughter got to cuddle up in his arms again. I could see the metal head band of his hearing aid reach around and into each ear. I could taste the candy corn he always put within reach before he read Uncle Wiggly to me. Most of all, I felt an overwhelming compassion for the physical suffering he endured day after day. His diaries add to my sense of love, belonging, and personal history.
Finally, having my own blog is one way to reach out to others who experience life similarly. It also offers assurance that these writings will always be accessible to my family. Just a few weeks ago, a brush fire came dangerously close to the house. We were ready to evacuate in case the fire spread (which it did not), and had everything together. I was exhausted and had no energy to grab all my journals; but it was comforting to know that someday, a son or grandchild might just stumble onto my blogs.
(c) Sally Z McBain
Monday, July 2, 2012
Fire!
It was just past 1:30 p.m. when I heard a knock on my sanctum door. I take my afternoon nap in there because it's at the back of the house where I don't hear traffic, horn-blowing trains, or lawn-mowing neighbors. My husband never disturbs me when I'm taking my nap, but this time, he made sure I was awake: "There's fire. You'd better get up."
The adrenalin surge was intense; my heart pounded like the beating of a drum. I could feel every nerve and muscle respond to the threat, and I was up in a flash. My limbs were wobbly from shaking, but I scrambled to tie the laces on my tennis shoes and head to the kitchen sliding doors to look up at the ridge behind the house. Smoke billowed up from the escarpment off to the west, and I knew it was time to fly into action.
Only two days ago, and in light of the Colorado fires, we got out the list of things we would take with us if fire threatened. Because I'm the appointed family worrier (I keep telling my husband I'm not a worrier, but a planner), I've always been the one to bring up the discussion of disaster preparedness, especially for earthquake and fire; and now that summer is here, it's not just a matter of 'if', but 'when'. So, we talked and prioritized again, making a fresh list. And then, we put it aside.
I was confident that if we had warning, we could get through an emergency. We had warning this time, and I knew exactly what to do next. While my husband set up the sprinklers, I spent the next hour gathering (1) things we need, (2) things we cherish that would fit into one of our two cars, and (3) things we don't really need, but want, like the perfect black pumps I just purchased. There was no way I was going to leave a pair of perfect black pumps that took me a year and several shipments from Zappos to find. My husband would understand; when the search began, I made sure that he was aware of my desire/need for a pair of perfect black pumps. I was not in the mood to hear, "Did you really need these?", when the time came for me to model them. With a bunion on one foot, pumps today just don't work for me; but I love the look, so I persevered. I have no idea where I'll wear my perfect black pumps, but they're finally mine and I will take them with me to my grave (children take note).
That I can ramble on about a pair of shoes speaks to my incredible relief; we got through it unscathed. We waited it out until after dark, and while there were still several small fires, they were not a threat. Picture a sleepy village lit up at night by mini-torches, and that's what it looked like. We knew they had nowhere to go, so we went to bed and slept soundly.
This morning, the hill is charred and there are pockets of smoldering brush; with the exception of what I think are two scorched Ponderosa pines way up high, the trees survived. We have seen a person moving through the trees here and there, so we suspect there are a few fighters combing the area, making sure the fire burned itself out. Our fingers are crossed.
As far as we know, neither person nor home was hurt or damaged by fire. We don't yet know how many acres it spanned, but it was on the Portland news almost as soon as it happened. When I heard that, I decided to call my sons before (if) they heard it on the Seattle news. We could see pockets of flame when the wind thinned out the smoke, and the house began to absorb the smell, but we were okay so far. I let them know there was talk of evacuation, but we were prepared. Both cars were out of the garage and headed down the driveway. Boxes were ready to be loaded at a moment's notice.
My biggest worry this morning is how I'll ever clear out the house. As soon as I realized what was happening, I closed the doors to every room, but only time will reveal the long term effect of the smoke. My husband spent most of the day out in it, but wasn't at all concerned about his lungs. I, on the other hand, could barely breathe, and had to hold one of my father's old hankies up to my face. I spent most of the day inside, except for the times I went out to greet concerned neighbors. Of all the homes on our street, ours was closest to the fire; however, we took a drive around the area this morning and saw how dangerously close to flame and thick smoke were other homes.
We purchased our house because it is up against the cliffs we so love about this area. Scrub oaks and Ponderosa pines provide our place of worship, our relationship with wildlife, our peace of mind, and our quiet solitude. We always knew fire was a risk, especially during the Fourth of July weekend; and sure enough, two kids are suspected of playing with fireworks. We've been told the same thing happened five years ago. Fire in these parts isn't a surprise, but it is a shock.
I asked a neighbor why helicopters weren't out, and he remarked they were most likely all in Colorado. Scores of fire trucks and personnel were gathered at a near-by high school, ready for action. The same neighbor, who had been listening to his scanner, explained they had come from towns and villages all around, and were here to save endangered homes while Forest Service crews battled the flames on the ground. Someone else said they were here to step in wherever they were needed. Whatever the reason, it was comforting to know people ban together when there is an emergency.
After we gathered up all our priorities, along with the things we could live without (but didn't want to if we didn't have to), I walked from room to room to take a look at what we would lose if the fire came up directly behind us. As it was, it was 300 to 400 yards to the west of us....way too close for comfort, given how quickly fire takes off in Gorge-powered winds. Slowly scanning all our mementos and treasures, I came to the conclusion that it is all just 'stuff'. I looked at decades of tangible memories and settled on the truth -- fire can not destroy memories that mean the most.
After my initial panic subsided, my thoughts and prayers were focused on the people saving homes and lives all over this country. We are blessed to have such skilled, brave, and dedicated individuals among us. I will continue to pray for residents of Colorado, especially all those who had to evacuate and will have no place to call home. For a few hours, I knew the initial fear they must have experienced.
We'll leave the house closed up today and the boxes will remain packed. I'm too skittish to relax completely. We'll keep looking at the hill, and when we are sure, maybe life can get back to normal. On the other hand, what is normal, really? I'm just grateful, that as I write this, all is well in this household.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Connections
Beyond that world of opposites is an unseen, but experienced, unity and identity in us all.
Joseph Campbell
As I prepare to give a workshop on Soul Portrait in a couple weeks, I think about the nurses aides who helped my mother in her last months of life. Later, I will write about them and the challenges they face in a job that is often thankless and overwhelming. Our health care system is dangerously close to being void of meaningful human connection; and health care workers need soul contact as much as their patients do. What follows is part of an entry I wrote two years ago in Sojourn (a former blog) -- with a new conclusion.
My husband and I were eating lunch in a small restaurant when I overheard a waitress say to the bartender, "I hate it when customers don't make eye contact. I may be just a waitress, but I'm every bit as good as they are." She sounded angry and didn't seem to care who heard her. When she brought our bill, I told her I could sense her frustration. In reply, she said, "There are times I feel invisible."
Who among us hasn't felt invisible? More to the point, who among us hasn't ignored someone else because we were deep in thought or conversation? I remember coming out of a grocery store several years ago, unlocking the car door, and saying to myself, "Who checked me out?" While waiting in line, I had leafed through a magazine, inched up to the clerk with my eyes on the conveyor belt, and focused on the business at hand. I was so busy making sure she entered the correct prices, I never once looked at her. I watched a pair of hands bag my groceries while I wrote a check and said my perfunctory "thank you". Without a glance back, I aimed my cart for the exit and headed out the door.
Because I was so engrossed in what I was doing, I missed an opportunity to recognize the person who was helping me do it. I totally ignored her. Eye contact is not only about human connection, it's about being in the moment. I was somewhere in the future, concerned about getting my stuff home and into the pantry so I could move on to the next task.
When I was in junior high school, I had the privilege of meeting a well-known speaker before she was scheduled to address our class. She took my hand, looked me in the eye, and very deliberately said, "Sally, I'm so pleased to meet you." Our first encounter lasted only a few seconds, but right then and there, I knew I wanted to experience that validation again. And I wanted to do the same for others. With the firmness of her hand, the tone of her voice, the mention of my name, and the look in her eyes, Mrs. Whitney illustrated the power of a soul connection.
Decades later, I met an author, a religious figure from our community who is respected world-wide. I went to a book signing where she inscribed the following in my copy: 'To Sally, in whose eyes ideas glow and truths live lively.' Surrounded by a flurry of activity, this adored writer never looked directly at me; and yet with good intentions, she chose to write about my eyes.
Eye contact is only one way to make a soul connection. I love hearing my name spoken; in fact, one of my closest friends has a way of saying 'Sally' that makes my heart melt. She puts a soft emphasis on it, as if the name 'Sally' is the only name in the world that matters to her. With such a heartfelt introduction, we make an immediate connection.
A similarly warm feeling arises when someone uses my name in the greeting of an e-mail. Typically, most e-mail senders don't bother to acknowledge the one to whom they are sending the note. One could say my objection is a generational handicap; but since my kids always begin with 'Mom' and end with 'love' (with no hints from me), I know it isn't. What's up? Are people in such a hurry they feel compelled to get out their message and get it out quickly? Has etiquette died for the sake of convenience?
We all want and need to be loved, acknowledged, heard, and appreciated. Man or woman, Democrat or Republican, gay or straight, doctor or nurse's aide -- no matter who we are or what we do in life, we need each other. Remembering our connection is what helps us understand, respect, and accept one another.
I wrote that last sentence with conviction, and now is the time to own it: I will try to remember this the next time I get upset with someone from the other political party (every single day). Still fresh in my mind is something I read this morning; and it gave me a jolt. Poet Theodore Roethke said, "Listen to the haters: they may remind you of new ways to love." If there is a time ripe for listening, this is it. These days, we are afraid of what the other party will do to the country if they get in - or remain in - power. In the blink of an eye, our fear can turn into hatred...and for some, it already has.
Each day I look around me and wonder how I can make a meaningful connection with people I meet. I will try to send e-mails with the reader's name in the greeting, look directly into the eyes of the checkout person at the store, listen to a friend process a problem without interrupting, and say 'thank you' every chance I get. I'll take my time, because I remember something else Roethke said: "The greatest assassin of life is haste."
If there is anything that would make our lives better, it would be taking life at a slower pace. Being attentive to the moment -- and pausing to acknowledge another person -- is life-affirming; it gives meaning and comfort where we may feel none is possible, on a day we may have started out wishing we could have stayed in bed.
(c) Sally Z McBain
Joseph Campbell
As I prepare to give a workshop on Soul Portrait in a couple weeks, I think about the nurses aides who helped my mother in her last months of life. Later, I will write about them and the challenges they face in a job that is often thankless and overwhelming. Our health care system is dangerously close to being void of meaningful human connection; and health care workers need soul contact as much as their patients do. What follows is part of an entry I wrote two years ago in Sojourn (a former blog) -- with a new conclusion.
My husband and I were eating lunch in a small restaurant when I overheard a waitress say to the bartender, "I hate it when customers don't make eye contact. I may be just a waitress, but I'm every bit as good as they are." She sounded angry and didn't seem to care who heard her. When she brought our bill, I told her I could sense her frustration. In reply, she said, "There are times I feel invisible."
Who among us hasn't felt invisible? More to the point, who among us hasn't ignored someone else because we were deep in thought or conversation? I remember coming out of a grocery store several years ago, unlocking the car door, and saying to myself, "Who checked me out?" While waiting in line, I had leafed through a magazine, inched up to the clerk with my eyes on the conveyor belt, and focused on the business at hand. I was so busy making sure she entered the correct prices, I never once looked at her. I watched a pair of hands bag my groceries while I wrote a check and said my perfunctory "thank you". Without a glance back, I aimed my cart for the exit and headed out the door.
Because I was so engrossed in what I was doing, I missed an opportunity to recognize the person who was helping me do it. I totally ignored her. Eye contact is not only about human connection, it's about being in the moment. I was somewhere in the future, concerned about getting my stuff home and into the pantry so I could move on to the next task.
When I was in junior high school, I had the privilege of meeting a well-known speaker before she was scheduled to address our class. She took my hand, looked me in the eye, and very deliberately said, "Sally, I'm so pleased to meet you." Our first encounter lasted only a few seconds, but right then and there, I knew I wanted to experience that validation again. And I wanted to do the same for others. With the firmness of her hand, the tone of her voice, the mention of my name, and the look in her eyes, Mrs. Whitney illustrated the power of a soul connection.
Decades later, I met an author, a religious figure from our community who is respected world-wide. I went to a book signing where she inscribed the following in my copy: 'To Sally, in whose eyes ideas glow and truths live lively.' Surrounded by a flurry of activity, this adored writer never looked directly at me; and yet with good intentions, she chose to write about my eyes.
Eye contact is only one way to make a soul connection. I love hearing my name spoken; in fact, one of my closest friends has a way of saying 'Sally' that makes my heart melt. She puts a soft emphasis on it, as if the name 'Sally' is the only name in the world that matters to her. With such a heartfelt introduction, we make an immediate connection.
A similarly warm feeling arises when someone uses my name in the greeting of an e-mail. Typically, most e-mail senders don't bother to acknowledge the one to whom they are sending the note. One could say my objection is a generational handicap; but since my kids always begin with 'Mom' and end with 'love' (with no hints from me), I know it isn't. What's up? Are people in such a hurry they feel compelled to get out their message and get it out quickly? Has etiquette died for the sake of convenience?
We all want and need to be loved, acknowledged, heard, and appreciated. Man or woman, Democrat or Republican, gay or straight, doctor or nurse's aide -- no matter who we are or what we do in life, we need each other. Remembering our connection is what helps us understand, respect, and accept one another.
I wrote that last sentence with conviction, and now is the time to own it: I will try to remember this the next time I get upset with someone from the other political party (every single day). Still fresh in my mind is something I read this morning; and it gave me a jolt. Poet Theodore Roethke said, "Listen to the haters: they may remind you of new ways to love." If there is a time ripe for listening, this is it. These days, we are afraid of what the other party will do to the country if they get in - or remain in - power. In the blink of an eye, our fear can turn into hatred...and for some, it already has.
Each day I look around me and wonder how I can make a meaningful connection with people I meet. I will try to send e-mails with the reader's name in the greeting, look directly into the eyes of the checkout person at the store, listen to a friend process a problem without interrupting, and say 'thank you' every chance I get. I'll take my time, because I remember something else Roethke said: "The greatest assassin of life is haste."
If there is anything that would make our lives better, it would be taking life at a slower pace. Being attentive to the moment -- and pausing to acknowledge another person -- is life-affirming; it gives meaning and comfort where we may feel none is possible, on a day we may have started out wishing we could have stayed in bed.
(c) Sally Z McBain
Friday, June 1, 2012
Living in the Moment
"There is only one moment in time when it is essential to awaken. That moment is now." Buddha
For thirty years, I was a devotee of self-help books, each one helping me see life through a clearer lens. I have given some away, but there are several others I'll never part with; one of them is Ekhart Tolle's The Power of Now. It carried me over the threshold from oblivion into awareness....over and over again. I bought the book in 2001 and read it once a year for six years. Then one day, I put Tolle back in his place on the shelf, alongside Wayne Dyer, Pema Chodron, and Thich Nhat Hanh, thinking I finally got the message.
As I approach 65 years of age, thoughts and fears still drive me to distraction. I acutely remember the aging process of my parents and wonder if I will have to endure the same indignities and frustrations. Am I going to drive my kids nuts? Will they be understanding and patient with me when I start to forget things, ask them to repeat everything they say, or fall asleep at the drop of a hat? What if I start calling them several times a day? What if I have to give up my home someday?
Recently, I got out The Power of Now and re-read this quote: "Do you have many 'what if' thoughts? You are identified with your mind, which is projecting itself into an imaginary future situation and creating fear. There is no way that you can cope with such a situation, because it doesn't exist. It's a mental phantom." According to this statement, I'm an expert on mental phantoms. I'm replacing the current moment with anxiety over something that is yet to come...if it comes at all. I could get hit by a truck tomorrow or die of a heart attack before I have a chance to get old. If I can't get back on track, I will miss the joy of living my life to its fullest.
Being in the moment isn't just about not worrying; it's about focusing on what I'm doing all day long. Why is it so difficult to think one thought at a time, take one day at a time, and do one thing at a time? The older I get, the more I realize this is the only moment I have. This very moment is my life and it's up to me to make the most of it. I've lost precious time by mindlessly multitasking, looking back, and planning ahead. "Live each moment completely and the future will take care of itself. Fully enjoy the wonder and beauty of each moment", said the Indian yogi, Yogananda. I've squandered too many precious moments thinking about the future.
Non-awareness puts me in an unconscious state; and if left to continue, will claim my life. I'm sure of it; I'll be 85 and wondering what I did all these years. I'll have photos, paintings, writings, and knitted garments galore; but was I really focused on them when I shot, painted, wrote, or knitted them? Will they just be part of a collection, or will they represent one woman's consciously lived life? I'm the only one who can answer those questions.
I wrote the following in my journal less than a month before my mother died: I feel as if I'm standing inside the eye of a hurricane. It is quiet, still, serene. Mother is stronger; Dad is more cheerful. It's a blessing fraught with dread; but here and now, we rest together -- maybe for a week, maybe for just a few hours. I have a short while longer to study their faces, treasure the sound of their voices, listen to them breathe. I won't lose this moment.
Since then, I've become acutely aware how short life really is. Thanks to Ekhart Tolle, I'm getting better at staying aware of the moment, in spite of the random, racing, brain activity that still has its way with me on a daily basis. It takes commitment and re-commitment to live in the moment. But the pay-off is well worth it; when I live in the moment, I never lose it.
I used to write in a diary as a young girl. Each day, I would jot down everything I did that day. A few of the entries were simply, 'boring day'. In my early 30's, I learned about journals and filled notebook after notebook, going into much more detail about my thoughts and feelings. Now, I've gone back to writing in a diary. There's something comforting (and very simple) about keeping track of what I do each day. Not only can I look back on the week's activities; I can check in with myself to see if I engaged in those activities with awareness.
Another moment has arrived: my fingers are clicking away at the computer. Ice cubes in my glass of iced coffee are getting smaller and smaller, and the quail is calling to his mate. Right this minute, I'm living my life the way I intend - without a worry in the world.
June poppies
(c) Sally Z McBain
Adapted from my former blog, Sojourn
For thirty years, I was a devotee of self-help books, each one helping me see life through a clearer lens. I have given some away, but there are several others I'll never part with; one of them is Ekhart Tolle's The Power of Now. It carried me over the threshold from oblivion into awareness....over and over again. I bought the book in 2001 and read it once a year for six years. Then one day, I put Tolle back in his place on the shelf, alongside Wayne Dyer, Pema Chodron, and Thich Nhat Hanh, thinking I finally got the message.
As I approach 65 years of age, thoughts and fears still drive me to distraction. I acutely remember the aging process of my parents and wonder if I will have to endure the same indignities and frustrations. Am I going to drive my kids nuts? Will they be understanding and patient with me when I start to forget things, ask them to repeat everything they say, or fall asleep at the drop of a hat? What if I start calling them several times a day? What if I have to give up my home someday?
Recently, I got out The Power of Now and re-read this quote: "Do you have many 'what if' thoughts? You are identified with your mind, which is projecting itself into an imaginary future situation and creating fear. There is no way that you can cope with such a situation, because it doesn't exist. It's a mental phantom." According to this statement, I'm an expert on mental phantoms. I'm replacing the current moment with anxiety over something that is yet to come...if it comes at all. I could get hit by a truck tomorrow or die of a heart attack before I have a chance to get old. If I can't get back on track, I will miss the joy of living my life to its fullest.
Being in the moment isn't just about not worrying; it's about focusing on what I'm doing all day long. Why is it so difficult to think one thought at a time, take one day at a time, and do one thing at a time? The older I get, the more I realize this is the only moment I have. This very moment is my life and it's up to me to make the most of it. I've lost precious time by mindlessly multitasking, looking back, and planning ahead. "Live each moment completely and the future will take care of itself. Fully enjoy the wonder and beauty of each moment", said the Indian yogi, Yogananda. I've squandered too many precious moments thinking about the future.
Non-awareness puts me in an unconscious state; and if left to continue, will claim my life. I'm sure of it; I'll be 85 and wondering what I did all these years. I'll have photos, paintings, writings, and knitted garments galore; but was I really focused on them when I shot, painted, wrote, or knitted them? Will they just be part of a collection, or will they represent one woman's consciously lived life? I'm the only one who can answer those questions.
I wrote the following in my journal less than a month before my mother died: I feel as if I'm standing inside the eye of a hurricane. It is quiet, still, serene. Mother is stronger; Dad is more cheerful. It's a blessing fraught with dread; but here and now, we rest together -- maybe for a week, maybe for just a few hours. I have a short while longer to study their faces, treasure the sound of their voices, listen to them breathe. I won't lose this moment.
Since then, I've become acutely aware how short life really is. Thanks to Ekhart Tolle, I'm getting better at staying aware of the moment, in spite of the random, racing, brain activity that still has its way with me on a daily basis. It takes commitment and re-commitment to live in the moment. But the pay-off is well worth it; when I live in the moment, I never lose it.
I used to write in a diary as a young girl. Each day, I would jot down everything I did that day. A few of the entries were simply, 'boring day'. In my early 30's, I learned about journals and filled notebook after notebook, going into much more detail about my thoughts and feelings. Now, I've gone back to writing in a diary. There's something comforting (and very simple) about keeping track of what I do each day. Not only can I look back on the week's activities; I can check in with myself to see if I engaged in those activities with awareness.
Another moment has arrived: my fingers are clicking away at the computer. Ice cubes in my glass of iced coffee are getting smaller and smaller, and the quail is calling to his mate. Right this minute, I'm living my life the way I intend - without a worry in the world.
(c) Sally Z McBain
Adapted from my former blog, Sojourn
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)